Sushi and coffee and coffee and coffee.

Italian and French Paolo’s head through the fence. Freemasons halls, a dozen missed calls. Outer space, Cirque du Soleil.  Saturn and Pluto, handbags in situ. Rain and white widow and stolen prosecco. Glass of champagne and my last love’s new flame.

Tumbling models and lemon tarts.

Heart beat next to Richard E Grant.

Cat hair and creases. Mirrors on dresses on nieces.

Feet ache, ball ache, edit suite, Editgate.

Surgery faces, planned features, hard lips, voluptuous hair to cover the nips. The call of the wild in none of their eyes. Fake suites, real laughter, deaf and toothless taxi driver. Foundation cracked smile, crow’s feet for a country mile. I’m your boss and his slave, my enthusiasm concave. Leather and lace, veiled net of a face. Cold stone and old brick, the show ponies new trick. Grunge is not dead, it’s been dragged through my head.

Who’s wearing what? Who knew who’s who of who’s who?

Who went to what?

Quite frankly, who gives a fuck.

B roll and close ups, let’s cut it with lies. Fake parties in your mind. Nods of recognition, the prudence of Titian. Dragon flags and bits from the bible, back drop for the couture disciple. Walk past the crowd, let my back catch their frowns. On stilts for my job, feel my feet throb. Birthday forgotten, too late for downtrodden. Lose my patience, airs and graces now latent. Androgynous bones, Delevingne’s eyebrows, drop hips like drones.

Spoilt brat rattles, cigarettes from Seattle.

Explosions of gold an avalanche of petals.

Chandeliers and candles and tempered metals.

A walking dog’s wit? Oh, my wrists are still slit.

Around a round table, the jabber of Babel.

American girl unsure of me, the other wails my prophecy. New York New York, come to New York. You could to stand up, we’d laugh when you talk. All work and no man, all going to plan. No man and no guilt, miss the eiderdown quilt. Pap scrums, zone out, barbarians shout. Pillage her image, she came from a village. Night black chocolate and edible stars. Donated by adonises, I have the mic on I promise.

Cucumber sandwiches and Mulberry punch.

No solids, they’ll vomit, no tip of a crunch.

A time-lapse of time and Daisy Lowe’s mind.

Climb the same walls as Henry VIII

Would he have cared that the videos late?

It’s on time it’s all fine. You can tell Anne Boleyn,

The problem was love, your neck was too thin.

In utero. Want out.

It’s time I split.

It’s fashion, it’s fine, darling, someone else take the kit.